


I Never Asked To Be Your Mountain

by Blue M Hart (ThePreciousHeart)



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, F/M, Fatherhood, Internal Conflict, Running Away, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 00:10:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19073518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePreciousHeart/pseuds/Blue%20M%20Hart
Summary: Throughout his life, John Marston has been many things- street urchin, petty thief, gang member, outlaw. But fatherhood is one role he could have never prepared for.Exploration of the factors that led John to leave the gang for a year.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory disclaimer that I haven't actually played RDR2 and only know about it from obsessively watching playthroughs. Not sure if that matters much anymore.

       The instant John Marston arrived at the perimeter of camp, the feel of the air told him that he’d missed a major occurrence. After a late-night excursion, he usually returned to voices around the campfire, the strum of Javier’s guitar, and perhaps an intense poker match. But tonight a focused tension seemed to hang over the camp, sapping its usual vigor. _Have we been attacked?_ The camp still appeared to be intact, but as John drew closer, he picked up the sound of pained moaning. Frantically John scrambled off his horse, Ivy, and hurried towards its source.

       _SHIT! I can’t leave this place for an hour without trouble finding us…_

       A figure emerging from the shadows halted John in his tracks. Javier’s voice rang out. “John! You’re back just in time.”

       “What?” John started forward, frantically scanning his surroundings. Now that he’d gotten closer, he noticed that the regulars were in fact gathered around the fire, but the persistent moans pervaded the atmosphere. He was about to demand to know what had happened, when it dawned on him that the sound was coming from the women’s shared tent. His heart began to race.

       “Abigail, she’s-”

       “She’s fine.” There was no hint in Javier’s eyes that he was offering a mere platitude, but that wasn’t comforting, given his general stoicism. “The baby’s on the way.”

       A bolt shot through John. _The baby._ Jesus, he’d had nine months to get used to it but somehow he hadn’t really believed… surely one day he’d wake up to find it was all a joke, and Abigail was pregnant by some other poor sap, or that she’d never been pregnant at all…

        But now, a baby was about to be born, a little flesh-and-blood creation that Abigail claimed was his. Well, partially his. _Well… strictly speaking, it’s all hers…_

John hardly felt Javier’s hand on his shoulder as he pushed past him, blindly heading towards the women’s tent. He had no idea what he was expected to _do_ in this situation, but he couldn’t just stand there helplessly… even though a large part of his being was aching to jump back on Ivy and ride away, far away.

       He was almost relieved when a hand clapped down on his back, but the deep voice that boomed out twisted him up inside even more. “Just where do you think you’re going?”

       John spun around to meet Arthur’s sullen glower. Defensiveness spiked. “I wasn’t leaving, I swear…”

       “Relax. No one said you _were.”_ Arthur rocked back on his heels and folded his arms over his chest. Since his back blotted out the campfire, his face was shrouded in shadow, but John still sensed a distinct lack of amusement in his eyes. _Good. That makes two of us._

       “Just remember, Marston. You made a promise to Abigail. Try to bail on us now, and that promise ain’t all that’s gonna be broken.”

       John attempted a laugh to show how little he thought of Arthur’s threat, but it came out as a harsh bark instead. _As if the grief I get from HER ain’t bad enough._ “You want me to see her, is that it?”

       “No,” said Arthur. “Miss Grimshaw’s got her hands full. The last thing she needs is some panicky little nitwit getting under her feet.”

       Normally Arthur’s words wouldn’t have rankled John, but now his fists clenched. “Okay, so what am I supposed to do?”

        Arthur gave a miniscule shrug. “I don’t care what you do so long as it’s in camp. Grimshaw ’ll send for ya when she’s ready.”

       With that, Arthur stalked off, leaving John rooted to the spot. _God dammit._ What was he _expected_ to do here at camp? All he could focus on was the terrible sound of Abigail in labor. At least Arthur was right to keep him away from the women’s tent. If John showed his face, he expected he’d do Abigail more harm than good.

       A sour feeling stole over John. Goddamn Arthur acting like he was some kind of expert because he’d been a father before. Not that John would dare to mention that little fact in front of him. The last time anyone had said a word in camp about Eliza, Arthur had responded with a look strong enough to kill had his eyes been daggers.

       Sliding his hands into his pockets, John began to walk in the opposite direction of the women’s tent, heading back to Ivy. In his rush to find out what had happened, he’d forgotten about the kills he’d brought back from his hunting trip. He half-expected Arthur to materialize out of nowhere and reign him back in, but fortunately he seemed to be occupied elsewhere in camp. _Good._ Pearson was sitting over by the campfire, but he’d still appreciate John’s donation when he had the chance. And it gave John something useful to do, anyway…

       As John dropped off the game he’d hunted, a round of singing started up by the fire. _“There is a house in St. Denis they call the Rising Sun. It’s been the ruin of many a poor boy, and lord knows I’ve been one…”_ With only three voices, the song sounded lonely and sparse, and for a second John was inclined to join them. But he knew that sitting there wasn’t worth the comments he’d already heard a thousand times from Bill. _“Little Johnny’s not such a kid anymore! Guess our fun with Abigail is over…”_ Just the thought of them made John grit his teeth. No, singing and socializing was definitely out of the question. He wasn’t remotely in the mood. At least the sad little tune helped drown out Abigail’s moans, though John figured it wouldn’t be long before Arthur or maybe Hosea came around and told them to shut up. He felt sure that Dutch wouldn’t bother.

        Having exhausted all his options, John trudged back to his tent and lit up a cigarette. Solitude was easy to handle, and often unexpectedly comfortable. _Guess I’ll wait here until I’m_ _sent for_. _Assuming they need me at all._ The breeze stirred up, wafting away John’s cigarette smoke and carrying snatches of conversation from Dutch’s tent to his ears. He recognized the cadence of Hosea’s voice, following Dutch’s unmistakable timbre. The sound was too indistinct to make out proper words, but John supposed that was for the better. _What else would they be talking about, but me and Abigail?_ The mix of conversation and tobacco lulled John into a peaceful state, though anxiety pulsed deep in the back of his mind.

       _Please let her be safe…_ He wasn’t sure if his thoughts were directed towards a higher power, or if he had enough faith in a higher power to justify them. But an uncaring, merciless God was surely better than having no God at all.

*

       The sudden absence of voices snapped John from his drowsy state. _Was I asleep?_ It seemed likely- his back and neck felt stiff from sitting in place for so long. The campfire singing had stopped, as had Dutch and Hosea’s conversation. And more worryingly, he heard nothing from the women’s tent. _ABIGAIL!_ John jumped to his feet and rushed out, all senses on alert.

      He halted in his tracks when he caught sight of Dutch standing at the tent’s entrance, discussing matters with a figure half-hidden by the tent flaps. When Dutch stepped aside, John saw that it was Miss Grimshaw, her face gleaming with sweat and several wisps of hair escaping her coif. She looked exhausted, as if she’d given birth herself.

      “John!” Dutch strode towards John, an absurdly jovial expression dominating his face. “Congratulations, my boy! Congratulations.”

       “She’s okay?” John breathed.

       “They both are.” Dutch clapped John’s shoulder, beaming proudly as if the baby’s existence was somehow his doing. A horrifying thought emerged- _what if it IS?_ Quickly John forced the notion away.

        “Go see for yourself, if you’d like.”

       Before John could do just that, the tent flaps parted to make room for Arthur. Acute surprise crackled through John. _What was HE doing in there??_

        “Well, he looks like a Marston to me,” Arthur announced as he came over to join John and Dutch. “All screwy and clueless. Definitely cuter, though.”

       John would have summoned a “shut up, Morgan,” but his mind caught on one word. “He?”

       “Yeah.” Arthur’s gaze traveled from John to Dutch and back again. “You got yourself a bouncing baby boy.”

       _A boy. It’s a boy…_ The words spun around in John’s head. Blindly he started to move towards the tent, dying to catch a glimpse of the child, but Miss Grimshaw cleared her throat.

       “Not so fast, Mr. Marston. Your Abigail has had quite a night. She’ll be ready to see you in the morning.” A pointed note lay in Grimshaw’s voice- _that is, if you’re still willing to see her by then._ John wanted to groan. He knew he hadn’t been very helpful to Abigail when she was pregnant, but he surely didn’t deserve to be constantly doubted.

“Thank you, Miss Grimshaw,” Dutch announced, when it became clear that John was lost for words. He turned to John, warmth coursing through his voice. “Come on, son. She ain’t going anywhere. Why don’t we grab something to drink?” Jubilantly, Dutch spread his arms. “Tonight is a night for _celebration!_ For unto us is born a child!”

       Drinks sounded tempting- _lord knows I’ll need it tomorrow-_ but John shrugged away Dutch’s offer. “I’m okay.” Though he knew it was pointless, he couldn’t help but keep glancing towards Abigail’s tent, trying and failing to picture the new soul that lay just beyond it.

      “Suit yourself,” said Dutch. “Arthur?”

       “Yeah, sure.” Arthur wasn’t looking at John anymore, which John wasn’t sure was an improvement.

       “Go ahead. You deserve it.” Miss Grimshaw waved her hands. “Thank you for assisting me tonight, Mr. Morgan. You’ve been most helpful.” Her eyes twinkled. “Most men wouldn’t have been able to stomach it.”

       _So that’s what-_ John whirled, prepared to confront Arthur, but Arthur only nodded in Grimshaw’s direction. “Whenever you need me, Miss Grimshaw.” With that, he ambled off behind Dutch. With a sigh, Miss Grimshaw straightened her hair and turned back to Abigail’s tent, leaving John standing alone and feeling oddly helpless.

       The clink of bottles traveled from the campfire to John’s ears, and John grimaced. Reluctantly, he headed back to his tent. The mere conversation had tired him, but he wasn’t sure he’d get a wink of sleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The music history nerd in me feels the need to state that "The House of the Rising Sun" wasn't widely known until around 1905, but the lyricist in me couldn't help pointing out how well "St. Denis" scans to "New Orleans."


	2. Chapter 2

       Early next morning, Abigail’s wide, dark eyes were the first thing to catch John’s attention as he pushed the flap to her tent aside. He next registered her hair, flowing in waves over her shoulders. The sight startled him- he’d never seen Abigail with her hair down before. He was also surprised to see that she’d pushed her shift down, exposing her breasts. Then John’s gaze transferred to the bundle in her arms, which had latched onto her breast, and in an instant Abigail was forgotten. He stood still, openly staring, not caring about Abigail’s reaction.

       “John,” Abigail breathed softly, uncertainly. “Come meet your son.”

       Even if Arthur’s teasing remarks had been grounded in reality, John wouldn’t have found any resemblance between himself and the child Abigail cradled. For that matter, the baby didn’t look much like Abigail, either. Or much like anything. Wrapped tightly in a blanket, his face was his only visible feature, all red and scrunched up. A few strands of fine dark hair covered his head. His eyes were shut tight as he suckled milk from Abigail’s breast, and stayed shut even after he’d drunk his fill.

       The longer John stared, the stranger he felt. In all his life, he wasn’t sure he’d seen anything so tiny. _Fit you between my two fingers, I could._ And somehow… this creature belonged to _him?_ To Abigail?

       “Quit your staring,” Abigail said, as John’s thoughts strayed towards her. “You look like a damn fool.”

       “Sorry, I…” _Goddammit._ Why was it so hard to find words? John cleared his throat. “He made it.”

       “He certainly _did.”_ A note of tenderness entered Abigail’s voice. Pulling up her shift, she cuddled the child close. John’s feeling of strangeness increased. Throughout her pregnancy, Abigail had treated her condition as something of a nuisance, rarely discussing it unless she had some sort of demand that only John could fulfill. Now, though she’d only known the child for a few hours, she’d become the picture of motherhood, from what John understood of it, anyway.

       “Here, John.” Abigail lifted the child, urging him towards John’s arms. “You ought to hold him.”

       _Ought to_ was right, but John stepped back, his arms frozen at his sides. “I… I wouldn’t know what to do.”

       Harsh disappointment clouded Abigail’s features. “Then _learn._ ” Again she offered the baby to John, and his hands twitched instinctively. But _no,_ it didn’t feel right, he couldn’t just… He wasn’t going to pretend he was anywhere near ready to do something like that.

       “You call him anything yet?” John asked, knowing a subject change wasn’t enough to divert Abigail’s attention, but she’d pretend it had. Sure enough, her face hardened, but she answered the question, albeit in a pointed tone.

        “I gave him your name. John Marston, Jr.” Abigail’s dizzying eyes bore into John, until he was forced to blink. “He’s your son, ain’t he?”

       The words _if you say so_ nearly sprang to John’s lips, but he held them back, afraid that his head would spin worse if he released them. He stared down at the baby, vainly trying again to find a single shred of resemblance. Some kind of identifying mark that screamed, _I’m John Marston’s child!_ But he couldn’t come up with a reason for the child to bear his own name, other than the fact that Abigail wanted him to.

       “You can’t call him that,” John heard himself say. “It’s too confusing. I mean… having two Johns…”

       “Fine, then.” Abigail’s mouth pressed into a firm line. “We could call him Johnny, or Jack, or anything else you’d like. But as for myself, I prefer John.”

       Try as he might, John couldn’t think of how he should react. Was this supposed to be _easy-?_ Pressure began to boil around his ears. Seeing the child for himself had made his situation all too real. He was a _father_ now, and-

       “I just don’t think I’m ready, Abigail.”

       A dark cloud shadowed Abigail’s face. “You ain’t been ready for nine months!”

       “Yeah, and what made you think that’d change?” The pressure was bubbling over, like the water Pearson used to make stew, and John ached to let it escape. He hurled his heated, frustrated words into the air. “I didn’t have much of a father growing up. You know that. How ‘m I supposed to raise a son without… without…” Unable to verbalize his emotions, John trailed off. The sense of futility overwhelmed him. They’d been through it all already, and arguing now was just going around in circles. But Abigail didn’t appear to be on the same page. She settled into a steely-eyed squint.

        “This ain’t just a burden on _you._ John, I…” Sighing, Abigail gazed down at her son and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “I never asked to be a mother any more than you asked to be a father.”

       The quiet admission bewildered John. He couldn’t recall Abigail acting specifically _unhappy_ about her pregnancy- _or was I not paying attention…?_

       “But there’s no way we can change what’s been done,” Abigail continued, her voice growing stronger every second. “We’re a _family,_ John. This boy… this beautiful boy…” Her fingers tenderly stroked her son’s forehead. “Surely it ain’t too much to ask for you to _try_.”

       John drew a sharp breath, watching as Abigail bent her head over the child. His tiny fingers reached up and latched onto her hair. _Smallest thing I ever saw._ Smallest, and the most vulnerable.

       “I just… I just need some time.” He wished he didn’t need it, that he could open his heart and instantly accept this new addition to his life, but it was such a huge step. He wasn’t sure if he had enough faith to make the leap across the chasm.

       “I’m sorry.”

        Abigail’s response was muted, her eyes averted. “I know.”

*

       John had assumed that the arrival of John Marston, Jr.- or Jack, as he quickly became known- would change everything, but he hadn’t expected the change to happen so suddenly. In addition to his usual duties, John was burdened with countless demands, courtesy of Abigail. He’d hoped that they would lessen once Jack was born, but if anything, they’d multiplied. He couldn’t walk from one end of camp to the other without Abigail shouting his name- “John! Get over here! The boy needs…”

       By the end of each day, John had to practically drag himself off to his tent, only for an ear-splitting wail to punctuate his peaceful sleep. More often than not, Abigail came running to him, and more often than not, she ended up berating him for doing the bare minimum. _But what am I supposed to DO,_ John felt like shouting after a particularly bad night. Why couldn’t Abigail find someone else to help, someone more qualified… He wasn’t sure if he liked what motherhood was turning her into. She was harsher now than she’d ever been.

All that kept John from cajoling another gang member into taking over for him, was the judgement with which said gang members fixed him if he wavered from his duty. Some of it came from Miss Grimshaw and her harsh tongue, but the worst of it was from Arthur. He hovered like a hawk, keenly listening and swooping in at the first sign of a problem. _He’s just sitting there holding his breath, waiting for me to fail…_ And John would be damned if he gave Arthur, or anyone else, the satisfaction. _He’s not the boy’s father, for chrissakes._

       Not that John felt any readier to be a father than he had the day Jack was born. Being around him felt awkward, even _wrong._ He hoped that holding him might alleviate his worries, but Jack cried in John’s arms and wouldn’t stop until Abigail had soothed him. Why did Jack need him specifically, when he had Abigail and a host of others who’d been eager to dub themselves uncles? They all seemed to connect with Jack more easily than John. When Abigail left her tent to get some sun and show her baby the world, she received no shortage of attention. Arthur sat nearby and sketched them in his journal at every opportunity, while Dutch beamed proudly and declared his enthusiasm for what he called “our next generation.” Hosea always stopped to see Abigail and ruffle Jack’s hair, praising them both, while Javier played a vast number of songs to entertain them. Even Uncle and Bill made an effort- the former singing funny songs when Jack was fussing, and the latter asking to hold Jack and tickling him to make him laugh. Pearson was the only one who showed little interest in Jack, but he often came to Abigail to ask if there was anything special she’d like to eat, “to keep your strength up.” Abigail almost always answered no, but John suspected she enjoyed the attention. Maybe more than she should.

        The more the gang interacted with the boy, the stronger John’s feeling of uselessness grew. He was redundant. Any of them could have made a better father, it just so happened that Abigail had declared _him_ the lucky one. Often, John couldn’t help but wonder if she’d said so because she believed it, or because she wanted it to be true. Though he doubted that anyone else in camp could easily lay claim. He knew for sure that Dutch had had her. He’d made a bit of a show, chatting with Abigail outside his tent for what felt like hours, before following her inside and drawing the curtain back very slowly. On the other hand, John knew that Javier had never had her, because he’d joined the gang while Abigail was pregnant. But the rest were harder to pin down. Bill spoke convincingly enough, but John suspected his incessant ribbing was a case of protesting too much. If Pearson had slept with Abigail, he’d never said a word, and Uncle… well, John didn’t even want to know. As for Arthur and Hosea, John doubted either had touched a woman in years, not since burying their respective loves out West. He couldn’t say he blamed them.

       As far as John knew, he had fallen into Abigail’s arms more frequently than anyone else. Her sharp tongue and spitfire soul had captivated him from the moment she’d taken his hand to introduce herself. At first he’d been convinced that she only accepted him in her bed due to her line of work, but as they spent more time together, he realized where her feelings lay. Once upon a time, it had been something of which to feel proud. _He_ was the one who kept her coming back for more. The one she preferred. The one she…

       But, though Abigail had opened her heart to John, she still gave her body away in town whenever she could. At the end of the day, John wasn’t sure what he hated more- the idea that one of his brothers in arms had fathered Jack, or that Abigail had continued her profession right up to the moment she learned that she was pregnant, despite how many times she and John had lain together. Somehow, it hadn’t bothered him at the time- she was a whore and she was just doing her job. But over the passing months, festering irritation had replaced his nonchalance. _Guess feelings don’t apply when you’re outside of camp, right?_ Maybe _that_ was why he couldn’t properly connect with Jack. Maybe Abigail was being selfish, naming John as the father out of convenience, when she knew full well that the real father was one of the many nameless men she’d charged for pleasure on a working night…

       After countless weeks of Jack’s cries and Abigail’s tongue-lashings ringing in John’s ears, his heart leapt with a newly promising sound. “John! If you’re not too busy, we might need you for a little scheme Hosea’s cooked up.”

      Looking around, John saw Dutch approaching with a telltale gleam in his eye. Knowing him, he’d likely come across some wealthy folks who acted too big for their britches and needed to be taken down a peg. _Guess_ _I’ll be doing the taking down._

“I’m in,” John breathlessly asserted. Forget everything else. How good it would feel to be out and about again, running jobs just like old times.

       “Unless you’re in the middle of something?” Hosea said as he sidled up to Dutch, concern creasing his forehead.

       “Nuh-uh.” John shook his head, already itching to feel the wind on his face and the weight of a gun in his hand. “Let’s go. You can tell me about it on the way.”

       Dutch chuckled. “See, Hosea? That’s what I call blind faith.”

       The three of them saddled up and took off. On the way, John drank in the sights and sounds of the wild as if he’d never witnessed them before. _Freedom._ He’d only been stuck helping Abigail for a few weeks, but it felt like a lifetime had passed. If he just kept riding, he could forget all that lay in wait behind him, if only for a couple hours.

       Hosea’s “little scheme” ended up being the robbery of a homestead. While Hosea put his gift of gab to good use, distracting the host, Dutch and John snuck in to loot the family’s valuables right under their noses. At first John was puzzled that both Dutch and Hosea had left camp for such a small-scale score. Arthur could have taken their place, or maybe Javier. But he soon concluded that Dutch and Hosea were the most comfortable ones to have at his side. Neither mentioned Abigail or Jack or John’s newfound responsibilities, which suited John just fine. _Bet Arthur would have been moralizing the instant we left camp._

Returning to the camp with the hastily-nabbed spoils, John found himself in high spirits. Dutch and Hosea made a lively pair, their conversation drenched in deft banter and reminisces. Talk of the past lulled John into memories of his own. When was the last time that he had spent time with only Dutch and Hosea? Even when he’d first joined the gang, there’d been Arthur and Grimshaw, and occasionally Bessie… Everything had been so much simpler back then, before Abigail showed up and ensnared John.

        “Well, I’d say we made a decent score,” Dutch declared once they had passed the camp’s perimeter, the horses slowed to a walk. “Thank you for your help, John. Keep up the good work.”

       John chuckled dryly as he slid from Ivy’s back onto his feet. “No, thank _you._ I can’t tell you how much this meant to me.”

       Though John was too focused on hitching Ivy to look up, he knew Hosea was smiling when he spoke. “Pleased to be of service. Now, there’s a spot by the fire with your name on it. Go grab yourself a drink, and-”

       A frustrated cry broke through the conversation, tensing John’s insides. “ _John Marston!_ Where you been all day?”

       _God, give me the strength._ Turning, John saw Abigail swiftly approach, with a purposeful stride to which he might have warmed a year earlier. Now, he felt like a tightly-coiled clock spring, ready to burst out the moment the clock’s back opened.

       “I was out with Dutch, makin’ us some money. Is there a problem?”

       Abigail halted just inches from John, her hands settling on her hips. “Not _anymore._ You was supposed to take care of Jack so I could go into town this afternoon.”

       _I was?_ Quickly John flipped through his memories, trying to figure out when and if he had told Abigail that. Any hazy promises he’d made that morning had melted away the moment he’d accepted Dutch’s exciting offer.

        “What’d you need _me_ for? Couldn’t Miss Grimshaw-”

       “No, she couldn’t.” Abigail’s eyes were blazing. “She ain’t the one who said she _would.”_

“I’m so sorry, Miss Roberts,” Hosea intervened from somewhere behind John. John felt the air move as he strolled up. “If I’d known John had work to do, I wouldn’t have asked Dutch to ask him to join us.”

        “I’m not blamin’ _you.”_ Abigail gave Hosea a cursory glance before settling her scowl on John. “No. You’re a man I can trust not to run off without a word.”

       Abigail’s words stung like a knife between John’s ribs. Though he was reluctant to rise to her complaints, they crumbled his resolve. It was bad enough that Hosea felt the need to apologize on his behalf, but comparing him to Hosea just wasn’t fair. _No one ever made HIM a father. No one ever said he had reason to run off._

“Jesus!” John burst out. “Who died and made _you_ the queen? I can go wherever the hell I want, and do whatever the hell I want, and you can’t say anything to stop me.” He struck out with his tongue, hoping that Abigail could feel the scalding marks on her skin. “In case you haven’t noticed, _you ain’t the boss of me_.”

        “No,” Abigail said, so softly that it was almost a whisper. Her eyes turned cold, like the surface of a lake freezing over in wintertime, as she folded her arms across her chest. “No, I’m not.”

       John said nothing, watching Abigail grow more irritated by the second. Finally she let out a loud sigh. “You’re impossible, John Marston.” With that, she turned and walked off, leaving John with his untethered horse nuzzling his shoulder, and a slowly-mounting fury in need of an outlet.

       _Yeah. Call ME impossible? YOU’RE not making my life any easier._

        John finished hitching Ivy in a huff and then went straight to Pearson. If he was in luck, there should be some alcohol around here… He knew Dutch had raided the liquor cabinet at the homestead they’d ripped off that day, and besides, there’d be a camp-wide uproar were they to ever run out. It took no time to find a bottle of John’s favorite whisky, a smoky, full-bodied taste that had made him retch as a child, but upon which he now leapt every chance he got. Spotting Hosea by the campfire, John made his way over, taking a few swigs from the bottle on the way.

       “Get everything sorted out?” Hosea commented as John sat down beside him. John gripped his bottle harder, stopping just short of shaking his head. “Let’s not talk about that now. Okay?”

       If the remark surprised Hosea, he didn’t show it. “Okay.” He followed John’s gaze to the gray, overcast sky. The campfire’s rising smoke was identical to it, as if a piece of the heavens had broken off and was making its way back where it belonged.

       In the comfortable silence, John relaxed. He had no hopes of regaining his good mood from earlier, but at least here, with a drink in his hand and Hosea at his side, he felt a sense of peace. Something he couldn’t say he’d experienced since Abigail had given birth. As the afternoon began its nigh-imperceptible shift towards evening, Hosea sighed and reached forward to stir the flames with a long stick.

       “You know, John… Bessie and I fought quite a bit, back in the day. No romance is immune to such scrapes. The important thing is to remember, even in the heat of the moment, whether this problem is worth throwing away what you’ve got.”

       If anyone else had tried to advise John, he would have decked them or told them off. But somehow, he didn’t mind hearing it from Hosea. Maybe it was the pleasant day they’d spent together, or the vague, nagging feeling that Hosea of all folks would _understand…_ He’d had a woman before, after all. And John couldn’t recall a time when Hosea’s counsel had steered him wrong. He took another gulp of whisky before setting the bottle at his feet, the need to speak suddenly pressing on him.

       “I don’t know what we’ve got, Hosea. I mean… besides our son…” The feeling of being watched stole over John, and he broke off to furtively check his surroundings. Other than the rustle of the breeze on the grass, nothing stirred within the camp. Everyone was apparently minding their own business. _Convenient._ Too convenient… but for once, the conversation was more important than worrying about whoever was listening in.

       “The boy needs a good father,” John muttered, staring down at the dirt beneath his feet and the half-empty bottle he’d nestled below. “Someone who can do right by him. I ain’t that kinda man.”

        Hosea hummed through his nose and took a sip from his own bottle. “And what does Abigail need?”

        “She-” John’s response withered in his throat. Honestly, what _did_ Abigail need? She called upon John every day to satisfy her endless whims, but most of the time, he was the last person who wanted to deal with her. If only they could go back to how it was before- no Jack and no strings attached to their relationship. Abigail deserved someone willing, who could devote his entire life to her and her child, no questions asked. And yet she insisted on sticking with John.

       John sighed, clenching his hands together. “She don’t need _me,_ I’ll tell you that much.”

       “I wouldn’t be too certain.” Hosea reached out to lay his hand on John’s shoulder, staring him straight in the eye. “I can’t say I know what it’s like to have a son. But I _do_ know what it’s like to have a wife, and I know the job ain’t easy. Not living the way we do.” Hosea’s hand slid from John’s shoulder, but his eyes remained trained on John, warm and sincere. “Having a family… It’s a compromise. It’s a sacrifice. You’ve got to decide who you want to make that sacrifice for.” Sighing, Hosea turned his gaze to the ring of trees just beyond camp. “The wife and child, or the motley lot that raised you?”

        Confusion mixed with surprise saturated John. Surely he had misunderstood Hosea, because he couldn’t be implying that John should leave the gang… _Imagine if Dutch heard you talking like that._ It wasn’t like he had a choice, or that Abigail and Jack were even worth leaving for. Hosea had tried to live on his own with Bessie, and it had ended in heartbreak. Arthur had attempted to make a second life with Eliza, only to… well, John wasn’t clear on the details, but he knew that what had happened wasn’t pretty. If providing for Abigail and Jack meant abandoning everyone else to whom John was close, he couldn’t possibly go through with it. But favoring the gang would only sour relations further…

_Well, let her vent all she wants. The boy ain’t really mine- and neither is she._

“’Fraid I don’t get you, Hosea,” John said slowly, scuffing a mark in the dirt with his boot.

       “Give it a think.” Hosea’s voice betrayed no disappointment or frustration, which again was preferable to the outrage anyone else would have given. “It may come to you soon enough.”


	3. Chapter 3

       The months stretched on, a hard chill soon pervading the air. Leaves bent beneath the wind’s weight before dropping off entirely. As the sky darkened more frequently, so did John Marston’s thoughts. He’d hoped that his situation would have improved by now. Abigail would have become less demanding, or she’d have decided that Jack didn’t really need a father, anyway. But as far as he could tell, nothing had changed. Abigail continued to insist John spend time with Jack, and help her with whatever she needed to get done, and expressed her disappointment when John fell short of her expectations. For his part, John couldn’t say he felt any better or any worse. He was just scraping by, spending longer hours on his own or with the gang in an attempt to forget the woman and child waiting for him at camp.

       One evening, when John was out hunting with Bill, the setting sun took John by surprise. Bringing up the rear, he slowed to stealthily glance over his shoulder, drinking in the sight of the sun’s golden fingers setting the valley aflame. Until now, he hadn’t paid his surroundings much attention, so focused was he on tracking his prey and fending off the jeering comments (“maybe you wouldn’t scare all the game off if you bothered to take a bath now and then, Marston”). But now, the valley and the woods beyond were enticing him to turn around and gallop back at full pace.

      As John stared, a small voice whispered in his head- _Why don’t you run?_ He’d put the question to himself many times over the past few months. Staying in camp wasn’t worth the fuss that Abigail put up, all over a kid who probably wasn’t his, anyway. If he ignored his responsibilities, he was living up to everyone’s low expectations, but any effort he put in was automatically deemed useless. _Damned if I do, damned if I don’t._ Wouldn’t it be better to extricate himself from the entire situation?

       _Where would you go, though?_ John’s mind supplied a rebuttal. _What would you do?_ And what a fine way to pay back Dutch for all that he’d done for John. Life as a criminal was far from ideal, but for someone like John, it was all he could hope for. Dutch had given him an opportunity to _thrive,_ and to turn his back on that and return a meager, solitary existence…

       Violently John shook his head to dispel his thoughts, and nudged Ivy to catch up with Bill. No, running was out of the question. No matter how much the grief Abigail gave him wore him down, he couldn’t leave the only folks with whom he’d ever felt at home. For them, John was bound to suffer through anything.

*

       “John! John, get up!”

        John responded to the voice in an instant, startling to wakefulness. _Ugh, what does she want now?_ Had he forgotten one of Abigail’s imaginary promises again, or maybe the boy-

       “What is it, Abigail?” John pushed himself up on his elbows, his blurry vision adjusting to Abigail’s worry-stricken face.

       “It’s Jack.” Hesitantly, Abigail thrust past the tent flaps, revealing the child cradled in her arms. “He’s real sick- I don’t-”

        “Sick?” Now fully roused, John rose to a sitting position and gestured for Abigail to come closer. She leaned in, so that their faces were inches apart, so close that John could have kissed her. But with the child between them, he didn’t sense intimacy so much as urgency. Jack’s flushed forehead was beaded with sweat. He was limp and listless, his breath rattling loudly in his chest. An unexpectedly hollow feeling gripped John, as if the blood had drained out of him. Jack had caught cold several times over the past few months, but those times had seemed like nothing more than an excuse for Abigail to be extra demanding. John had never seen Jack in such poor shape.

       “He started coughing halfway through the night,” Abigail explained as John looked up to meet her eyes. With one glance, he took in her harried expression and the sweat on her own face, as if she too were suffering. “I don’t know what to do, John, I mean-” She broke into a curse, stepping backwards. “If only we had a _doctor_ running with us, or- or someone who knows medicines-”

       “Hosea.” John stood up without realizing it, too focused to point out that Abigail should have gone to him first. “Hosea’s made medicine for me in the past. He’ll help you out.”

       “I-” In a frenzy, Abigail fled from John’s tent, without so much as a word of thanks. Although John remained standing, he felt immobile, a nervous feeling creeping in like an uninvited guest. Jack’s red face and raspy breathing filled his mind. No matter how much trouble he’d gone through for the child over the past months… he couldn’t bear the unthinkable.

       _Hosea will help._ With effort, John pushed himself through the tent’s flaps and scanned the dewy morning clearing for signs of life. _If he doesn’t, who…?_

Pearson had begun breakfast, but no one else in camp was stirring. John felt exposed, standing outside his tent in his nightclothes, hanging on a desperate hope that he was simultaneously too afraid to believe. It felt like an eternity before he saw Abigail rushing out of Hosea’s tent, Jack still cradled in her arms.

       “What did he say?” John asked as soon as Abigail was within hearing range. She didn’t meet his gaze as she transferred Jack to one arm, leaving her other hand free to offer John a scrap of paper.

       “He wrote it all down for you. Go into town and try the shops first. If there’s anything they don’t have, check the woods.” As John stared, first at the list Hosea had written and then back at Abigail, Abigail grew more agitated. She gave John a little push on the shoulder. “Go on, get! The sooner the better!”

        “All right, all right.” A bitter taste filled John’s mouth- here Abigail was _still_ bossing him around- but he swallowed it down. “Don’t worry, Abigail. I’ll be back before you know it.” Stuffing the paper away, John turned back to his tent. First he’d dress, then he’d be on his way. There would be time for breakfast later.

       The sun remained concealed behind thick gray clouds for the first half of John’s journey, but eventually it began to show its face, throwing weak rays down the back of John’s neck. John’s stomach began to rumble, and he wished he could stop along the way to hunt, but there was no time. An extra second spent out of camp was another second Jack lay suffering- and another second Abigail would hold against him upon his return. He spurred Ivy on, concentrating only on his goal in order to block out the worries and frustration that otherwise plagued him.

       By the time John reached the town, the sun had vanished once again. Walking alone in town felt strangely uncomfortable. Usually he’d be here with Arthur or Bill or anyone else in the gang- sometimes scouting for a _business opportunity,_ as Dutch might put it, but more likely looking for some fun to pass the time. The folks John passed seemed to stare straight through him, as if he didn’t exist without company. Shaking off the disturbing feeling, John made his way to the general store, reviewing his shopping list.

        _Elecampane root_

_Tincture of echinacea_

_Thyme oil_

_Fresh ginseng_

John wasn’t sure if all the herbs were essential, but he didn’t want to take any chances. Thyme and echinacea were available at the general store, but he couldn’t find the other two. After paying for the herbs, John walked out of the store with a sigh. _Looks like this’ll be a longer trip than I thought._

Fortunately, upon scouring the other shops in town, John managed to find exactly what he was looking for. Relief swelled over him, so great that it surprised him. He tried to push it down. _At least I don’t have to root around in the woods._ And at least Abigail wouldn’t make a fuss about him coming back empty-handed. No one could say he hadn’t done what was asked.

        Out in town again, John unhitched Ivy, stored the medicine away in her saddlebags, and quickly rode off. The faint sun grew warm on his back, mimicking the vague sense of pride infusing him. Sure, it was the bare minimum, but it was _something._ He’d left before Abigail asked twice, and found the supplies Hosea had written down in no time. _Maybe she’ll actually thank me for once-_

All thoughts scattered with the crack of a gunshot, followed by a bullet’s near-miss.

       _What-!?_ Frantically John jerked at Ivy’s reins, yanking her off the beaten path. Twisting his neck around, he spied two riders in pursuit, guns out and bandanas pulled over their faces. Were they Colm O’Driscoll’s boys? Random bandits John had yet to meet? Or maybe townsfolk whom he’d once robbed, ready to enact vigilante justice? None of the possibilities mattered to John. He dug his spurs into Ivy’s side as more warning shots broke out. The gunmen remained silent, which baffled John further, but he didn’t bother dwelling on it. Getting home was of utmost importance.

       Another shot rang out, and Ivy whinnied in panic. John pressed himself close against her back, trying to soothe her. “It’s okay, my lady…” Keeping the reins wrapped around one hand, he grabbed his pistol and unsheathed it from his gun belt. If these bandits wanted to cause trouble, they’d received more than they’d bargained for.

       Turning back in the saddle, John aimed for the bandit closest to him, and fired. The shot went clear through his shoulder, but though its force jolted him back, he remained steady and upright on his mount. The second bandit was gaining now- soon they would be neck and neck. Gritting his teeth, John took aim again. _Come on…!_ He fired straight at the bandit’s chest, just as the bandit himself pulled the trigger.

       The next actions happened in quick succession. As John’s bullet lodged itself in the bandit’s heart, the bandit tumbled backward, his aim upset. The bullet went flying, no longer pointed as John, but at Ivy’s flank. Ivy screamed out as the bullet made itself a home in her flesh. She reared, and though John dug his boots firmly into the stirrups, he was ultimately unprepared. He twisted and fell painfully to the ground, while Ivy, limping, wandered off.

       There was no time to chase John’s missing steed, for the second bandit had approached. Quickly, John rolled out of the way before the horse’s hooves crushed him. “What’s your game, friend?!” The cry was lost in the sound of pummeling hooves and a strained neigh, as the second bandit jerked the reins to circle back around. John noticed he had a lasso in his hand, and the thought flashed upon him- _bounty hunter?_ Whatever his profession, he was fast, and if John didn’t move right now he’d surely meet his maker. The nearest bit of cover was nothing more than a rotting tree stump, but it would have to do. Flattening himself against the ground, John crawled behind the stump and poised his pistol. He was ready when the bandit charged, firing a shot that sent a spray of red out the back of the bandit’s neck. The horse galloped on, its movements zigzagging as it became aware of its master’s condition. But that wasn’t John’s problem anymore.

       He lay there for a few moments, breathing hard, trying to determine if the bandits had had any more men with them. When his heart had stopped pounding and he was certain he wasn’t about to be ambushed, John rose to his feet and checked himself. He’d made it out of the fight without a scratch, but that was the least of his concerns. Holstering his pistol, John walked to the spot where Ivy had been shot, his hands tightening into fists. He didn’t want to imagine what had happened to her, but she couldn’t have gotten far.

       Hoofprints in the earth led in a curving line away from where John had fallen. He examined them closely as he walked. Although John’s heart was in his throat, Ivy’s apparent tenacity left him quietly impressed. He’d had a horse shot out from under him before, and it hadn’t lasted long. _That’s my girl. Fighting to her last._ The ground gently sloped beneath John as he followed the trail downward, until at last the trees grew sparse and he glanced up-

       And promptly felt his confidence spiral away.

       Before John lay a river. A wide, coursing river that John had no hopes of ever crossing. And in that river was Ivy, frantically swimming.

       _No._ A sheen of sweat broke out on John’s forehead. _Not that…_ He didn’t want to take another step, afraid of losing his footing on the bank. But goddammit, he needed the medicine in those saddlebags.

       “Ivy!” John whistled, and Ivy’s ear twitched. He wondered if she’d jumped in the river to try and wash her wound, or if she’d decided she was ready to die. _If so, fine time for that._ Wetting his lips, John whistled again, and Ivy struggled in the water. She swung her neck around, apparently in response, but didn’t turn. _Oh, Christ._

       Part of John wanted to sit down on the bank and take a deep, calming breath, but there was no time for that. Like it or not, he was by himself, and that meant the full responsibility of retrieving the medicine fell on his shoulders. He forced himself to take a step, and then several others, until his boots were half-sunk into the sandy shore. The current didn’t seem very strong, since Ivy hadn’t sunk yet, but she was bigger and stockier than John. Surely he’d be swept away if he set foot in the river.

       John whistled at Ivy one more time, and at last, she turned. Slowly- _too slowly-_ she began to paddle for shore. _Yes!_ John felt like jumping up and down in sudden elation. He watched with bated breath as Ivy dragged herself out of the water. Once her hooves touched the shore, she went down, flopping into an exhausted heap.

        “Brave girl,” John murmured absently, but his mind was on the drenched saddlebags. He surged forward, ripping open the one that he’d stored the herbs in. In an instant, his elation turned to dismay.

        Save for a few lingering scraps, the saddlebag was empty. Everything else had been washed away.

       Ivy’s sides were heaving, mirroring John’s speeding breath. He backed away and stared into her lusterless eyes. Now that he stood by Ivy’s side, he could see the gaping mark that the bullet had left, and the fresh blood oozing from it. His head spun. There was no way she could take him back to camp.

       “I’m sorry, lady.” John forced himself to turn away, before he could pull his pistol out. He wasn’t sure if Ivy would make it, but he didn’t want to be the one to end her life. The most important matter was getting away from this _goddamn_ river. Once John was safely in the woods, he could then determine his next step- to go home, or back into town? Or root around in the woods after all?

       Going back to town couldn’t be worth it. Based on how long John had been riding, he had to be closer to the camp. If he went there, he might be able to take another horse and head back to town- this time, accompanied. That way, he could still fulfill the task Abigail had appointed.

       He tried his best to ignore the voice that said now was the perfect time to turn his back.

*

       When John next heard the sound of thundering hooves, he tensed, and his hand flew to his gun belt. But then an irritatingly familiar voice rang out- “Where the hell have you been, Marston?”

       “Arthur-” John waited as Arthur slowed, looking down on John with his usual dourness. Mixed feelings filled John at the sight. He was weary, having been trekking through the woods for god knew how long, and wanted nothing more than to climb on Arthur’s horse and ride back to camp. But beneath the weariness lay a sense of foreboding. _If Arthur hears about what happened… god, he’ll have my head._ All the same, John was desperate to explain himself.

       “Arthur, I need a ride back,” he burst out, the words flowing together and making little sense. “Ivy’s at the river- I had to leave her there, after we was jumped- she had the medicine, Jack’s medicine, but it’s all gone…” John searched his pockets in a frenzy, before realizing that he’d packed the list of herbs in his saddlebag, too. He swore loudly. “I had it with me, I swear! I found it all in town, everything Hosea said- I just need to-”

       “Easy,” Arthur exclaimed, as if John were his horse. “What you need is to go back to camp, Marston. You ain’t right in the head.” He gestured for John to climb up behind him, and mechanically, John did.

       “Jack needs the medicine,” he insisted once he was settled in behind Arthur. “You have to go get it, Arthur… she’ll eat me alive…”

        John felt Arthur’s back deflate as air rushed from his lungs. “You ask too many favors. When are you gonna take responsibility for yourself?”

       “Hey, it’s not my fault I got jumped!” John exclaimed. “Not my fault Ivy lost her mind and decided to go _take a bath_.”

       Arthur flicked the reins, and Boadicea took off at a trot. “I got no idea what you’re talking about. And before you say a word, I don’t _want_ to know.”

*

       By the time John and Arthur arrived back at camp, John had regained his wits- enough so that his sense of foreboding outweighed his weariness. As Boadicea slowed to a walk, the feeling only increased. Abigail’s scowling face occupied John’s thoughts, as did the rasping breaths of little Jack. Arthur hadn’t mentioned if his condition had improved or worsened, and John was reluctant to see for himself.

       “Go on, John,” Arthur insisted as John clambered to the ground. “I’ll go get the medicine. It ain’t important who does it, so long as it’s done.”

       “Thank you,” John muttered sullenly. Now why couldn’t Abigail understand that…? “Go talk to Hosea. He’ll give you-”

       “He already has,” Arthur interrupted. “Figured when you were late coming back that I might have to make the trip myself.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned Boadicea around, and took off in the direction from which he’d arrived. John ground his teeth together. _Figures…_ He felt like swinging at something, but forced himself to walk to the women’s tent instead. It was best not to keep Abigail waiting any longer.

       As John entered the women’s tent, he saw Abigail seated at the edge of her cot, still clothed in her night shift. Her head was bent over Jack, cradled in her arms, but the moment John cleared his throat to announce his presence, she whipped her head up. “John!” Before John had time to think, Abigail laid Jack down and pushed herself to her feet. Her arms encircled John, her warm cheek pressing against his. “Where you been? What took you so long?”

       “I-” With Abigail in his arms, John was flustered. Every part of him ached to lie, to tell Abigail that they’d been out of medicine at the store, that he’d ridden all over in search of a shop that carried it and had only returned once he’d seen for himself that there was none. He could tell her that he’d made a valiant effort in the process of failure. It wouldn’t make her happy… but neither would the truth.

       “I… I lost the medicine.”

       John felt Abigail’s body stiffen. She let go of him and pulled away, as if an unknown force had suddenly repelled her. Her wide, unblinking eyes bore straight into John.

       “Lost it?”

       It wasn’t too late for salvation. To explain that when John said _lost,_ what he really meant was _couldn’t find any…_ But rather than backtrack, the truth came out in a halting, broken flow.

       “I was jumped on my way back from town. Ivy ran off without me, ended up in the goddamn river… I don’t know, Abigail, it must have just washed…”

       The look of disappointment on Abigail’s face was potent enough to stop John in his tracks. Her mouth hung slightly agape, and her head began to shake from side to side. A cry burst out of her, as if a tightly-clenched fist deep within her had released its grip.

         “As if you want your own son to die!”

       John exhaled through his teeth, fighting the urge to folds his arms over his chest. He didn’t dare peek at the bundle on the cot. “I ain’t so sure about that.”

       “What does _that_ mean?” Abigail spat.

       Now that John had said it, he wasn’t sure how to proceed. In all the months he’d spent trying to raise Jack, he hadn’t ever voiced his growing doubts on the child’s parentage. But he’d already said more than he wanted to, so… _Might as well let it all out._

      “I ain’t sure the boy’s gonna die.” John swallowed, maintaining a fierce, defiant voice. “And I ain’t sure he’s my own.’

       Abigail’s forehead creased, and her hands formed fists, but she didn’t move, apparently unsure whether to rage or question John. She stood quivering with baffled fury for a long time, long enough for eagerness to replace John’s dread over the ensuing conversation. At last, they were speaking plainly to each other, all their problems out in the open. Abigail was overdue to hear the choice words that had been reverberating through John’s head for months.

      “How…” Abigail started. “If he ain’t yours, then _who-”_

“Who do you _think?”_ The words burst out of John. “Why don’t you ask one of those men who used to pay to fuck you? Or maybe you should ask Bill, huh? Or Pearson?  _Dutch?”_

       Quick as a flash, Abigail’s palm shot out, connecting solidly with John’s cheek. Her eyes blazed with a ferocity that John would have admired had it not been directed towards him. “God damn you, John Marston!”

      John’s world dissolved into nothing but the stinging sensation that Abigail’s hand had left. Without thinking, he shoved her, wanting nothing more than for her to _get away_. “Fuck _you,_ Abigail!”

       Abigail stumbled backward, nearly losing her balance before she caught herself on the cot. She stared at John, her eyes mirroring his shock, before a pained wail split the air. Immediately Abigail’s attention turned to Jack. She leaned over him, cooing meaningless words, her argument with John abandoned. It took a minute for John to realize she wasn’t going to acknowledge him, whereupon he walked out of the tent and headed straight for his own. He didn’t see her for the rest of the day, not even when Arthur returned and Abigail thanked him profusely for the herbs that he’d tracked down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the herbs named in this chapter: I took most from a book I have about herbs and their properties, and threw in the infamous ginseng because it was an item request for Hosea when he was making a remedy for his illness. I don’t know if these herbs were all readily available in stores back then, but it was easier to write about John going to town than having to search in the woods. Also I’m aware that some herbal remedies can be harmful to children of a certain age (at least that’s what I’ve heard), and as for that, I’ll admit I just didn’t bother to do my research. So basically, I just handwaved it all and do not recommend their usage until I find out more about it.


	4. Chapter 4

       A good night’s sleep usually cured all hurt, but when John awoke the next morning, he found that the dark feeling that had crawled inside his chest the day before was there to stay. He was used to snippets of outside conversation greeting him upon waking, but today the sound was oddly muffled. John sat up and pulled his knees to his chest, lacing his arms around them and resting his chin on top. His head was whirling with a thick stew of interwoven emotions. It was too difficult for him to single one out.

       After yesterday’s events, one fact stuck out- Abigail didn’t need John in her life. How could she, when she’d refused to hear his well-founded explanation, but welcomed Arthur back with open arms? Not to mention, after what John had told her, he doubted she _wanted_ him in her life, either. He’d become a thorn in her side, as much as she was to him.

       What was John supposed to do now? Logic dictated that he should stay with the gang, since they all he had on which to rely. On his own, John didn’t think that he would make it. But at the same time, he was _tired_ of quelling the urge to leave. He had no idea how to repair his relationship with Abigail, or even if he wanted to. And he certainly didn’t want to be stuck in the role she’d imposed upon him for the rest of his life.

       Again the little voice rose up inside John- _Why don’t you run?_ And this time, he listened.

       Pulling off an escape without being noticed was nearly an impossible task. John knew he couldn’t break down his tent in front of everyone, or haul any hefty baggage across camp. Fortunately, the items he’d lost the day before when Ivy went down meant that his cargo was much lighter than expected. He’d find a store to rob along the way, to make up for the supplies he’d have to leave behind. The biggest issue was finding a horse to ride, but John figured that unless he took Dutch’s, none of the horses in camp would object to a different rider. Besides, he only needed the horse to get a head start and ensure no one would take after him. Once he’d ridden far enough, he could turn the horse loose and send it back to camp.

       John half-expected to be accosted on his way to the hitching posts, but none of the few who were awake seemed to notice him. A knot formed in the pit of John’s stomach. Part of him wanted to give the gang a proper goodbye, but he couldn’t let sentimentality sway him. He’d already made up his mind.

       In no time, John had made it across camp and selected his mount. As he saddled the horse, the knot in his stomach grew, but he forced himself not to worry. Soon he’d be out and free- free from the burdens of unwanted fatherhood, free from the shrewish demands of his woman, free from the conflicts that came with being part of a gang. _You’ve got to decide who you want to make that sacrifice for,_ Hosea’s voice rang in his head. _The wife and child, or the motley lot that raised you?_ He’d failed to mention that sometimes, no sacrifice was necessary.

       John took off at a full trot, without a glance over his shoulder. The horse he’d chosen responded well to his commands. He plunged blindly through thickets, not caring where he was going as long as it was _away._ Away, away, far away… He spurred the horse into a gallop, uncaring of the branches that tore at his clothing and the uneven ground below.

       It wasn’t long into the ride when John heard a voice bellow from behind him. “John! John Marston!” Recognizing Arthur’s voice, John pushed his mount harder. Thank god it wasn’t Dutch following him, or even worse, Hosea… Arthur he could handle. Arthur he could ignore. But as he rode, Arthur kept pace, and a flicker of frustration built in John’s chest. _For god’s sake…_

       “Slow down, goddammit!” Arthur shouted. “We need to talk!”

       _Yeah, right._ John didn’t dare turn his head. _I ain’t afraid of you anymore._ He tried to urge his mount onwards, but the horse refused to run faster. Soon Arthur had ridden up beside John. He steered Boadicea into John’s path, and John yanked at the reins, bringing his horse to a sudden stop. The horse reared, but John clung on tightly, waiting until it had calmed down. Patting its neck, John met Arthur’s cold eyes.

        “You should be ashamed.” Arthur spat the words like poison. “Leavin’ your wife and child.”

      “She’s not my wife,” John replied automatically. The words they had exchanged would never hold up under the scrutiny of the law. He hadn’t bought a ring for Abigail’s finger, and she’d never asked for one.

       Arthur grunted. “Well, whatever she is, you’re doing her no favors by turning your back on ‘er.”

       “Just let me go, Arthur,” John pleaded. He was ready and willing, _so close_ to impending freedom… “Let me slip out of here quietly. _Please_. Do it for me.”

       A familiar gleam filled Arthur’s eyes, a look that always meant he was getting ready to deal some damage. “You’re making a huge mistake. I don’t think I need to tell you that.”

       John shook his head, glancing away. “Then don’t bother.”

       Even without looking at Arthur, John felt the severity of his words weighing on his chest. “You walk out of here, and you ain’t welcome back. Understand me?”

       “I-” The words _I don’t care_ sat on John’s tongue, but he couldn’t bring himself to voice them. Try as he might to pretend otherwise, he _did_ care. A sudden sense of loss swept him. Leaving the gang meant leaving Dutch, Hosea, Arthur, Bill, Grimshaw, Javier… countless faces he’d come to know and love. They weren’t just his friends- they were his _family_. And here he was, prepared to walk off and never see them again. If the urge to leave wasn’t so much stronger, John might have lost his nerve. But he stayed silent instead, holding his ground.

       Apparently mistaking John’s silence for defeat, Arthur’s voice softened. “C’mon. Let’s get back to camp. You got a family to support.”

        From deep within John, the words that he’d been holding back since the day Jack came into the world bubbled to the surface. “Yeah, because it worked out _so well_ when _you_ had one!”

       Arthur’s eyes widened- the only sign that John’s words had struck home. His guard was down for just a split second, but a split second was enough. John wasted no time in spurring his horse, driving it around Arthur and down the sloping ground. He listened hard for sounds of pursuit behind him, but in his heart, he knew that Arthur wasn’t going to follow him anymore.

       The wind whipped at John’s hair as he rode, and he let out a wordless yell. His heart was pounding, surging with a paradoxical mix of anxiety and carelessness. At last, he was free. _Free. Free._ It had never tasted so bittersweet.

**Author's Note:**

> This work's title comes from the song ["I Never Asked To Be Your Mountain"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MGiNr1bctzw) by Tim Buckley. Listen to it while imagining John's ride out of camp as he leaves the gang behind.


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